Taking risks isn’t for the faint of heart.
It’s a gamble. A little flare of anticipation that Sylvain chases more often than he’ll admit. Every person is different after all, which means that the reward is never the same. If this Empress weren’t so sharp or lacked the grace to manage their little game, Sylvain could be on his way to wherever the Monastery was holding other nuisances.
In fact, it could have gone a number of ways. This, though? He leans forward, the torchlight hanging over their heads bright enough that he can see the mortification settling over the official’s face. He looks a little like he’s just been told that the Goddess he’s dedicated his life to never existed at all and whatever Sylvain says next will cast him down a path not meant to be recovered from.
Turning to his newest paramour, he hopes that she can read the admiration shining in expression even as his lips twist, desperate. “You’d have me debase myself? To the church?” For a moment, he sounds just like any upstanding noble citizen of Faeghus should.
Here’s hoping the Goddess has a sense of humor.
Defeated, he allows his shoulders to slump, raising her hand to press his lips against cool fingers. “For you, I’ll do anything.” He can hear the bishop’s barely whispered, Saints help me… and it’s all he can do to keep his expression from lifting. “Even if my past actions mean that I’m banned from stepping in the church again, it’ll be worth it.”
Letting go of her hand, he keeps close to her side as he turns toward the bishop instead, looking more and more like he wanted to flee the scene. Good. “My love, my Empress, on the day of the battle, when she laid her hands on me, I-” Sylvain can’t remember the last time he backed down from a challenge, especially when he had the winning hand. It’s too easy to describe it, like reading a novel he’s memorized by heart. He know how to spin a rapid-fire descent into madness, where desire overwrites rational thought. Sylvain would have crumbled easily. After all, the empress was new, and it was all too easy to fall in to bad habits.
It’s a feeling he knows well, after all.
Predictably, the bishop folds before the theoretical clothes hit the floor, so Sylvain thinks he will still be welcome here. “Enough!” Oh. He’s angry - Sylvain’s expression runs toward alarm. “You,” Somehow, the angry, accusing finger is pointed at him. As if the woman on trial is no longer the main priority. “Do not say another word. And you-” He’s remembered her after all, anger fading into something more complicated. His head shakes. “I…will be documenting this incident. However. For now, I have no further questions.”
He leaves them, but Sylvain gets the feeling that they’re still being watched so he inches a little closer as if he seeks affection. Then, because he doesn’t truly know her, he tips his head downward, covering his mouth with his palm as he whispers, “Someone’s still around. So…what do you say? Am I forgiven?”
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